The "safe place" Vane took them to wasn't a library or a bedroom. It was the Obsidian Sanctum—a subterranean training arena buried deep beneath the foundations of the Royal Wing.
The room was circular, vast, and terrifyingly empty. The floor was made of black sand that absorbed sound, and the walls were lined with runes that glowed with a faint, pulsating purple light.
"Anti-magic dampeners," Vane explained, his voice echoing in the void. He walked to a rack of weapons on the far wall and began unbuckling his ceremonial armor. "The walls are lined with void-stone. Whatever happens in here, stays in here. You could explode like a supernova, and the Queen wouldn't feel a tremor in her tea cup."
Elian stood near the entrance, rubbing his neck where the silver collar still sat. Vane had deactivated the silence function, but the weight of it remained.
"Why are we here?" Elian asked, watching Vane strip down to a sleeveless black undershirt. The Commander's arms were thick with muscle, scarred from a hundred battles. The bandage on his shoulder was white against the olive skin.
"Because you are a leaking faucet," Vane said bluntly. He tossed a wooden practice sword at Elian.
Elian caught it by the hilt, instinctively dropping into a crouch. It was weighted perfectly, but it felt foreign in his hands. In the Wards, he fought with pipes, shivs, and dirty fingernails.
"You have raw power," Vane continued, picking up a matching wooden blade. He rolled his shoulders, testing his range of motion. "But you have zero control. In the marketplace, you exploded because you were terrified. In the Prince's bedroom, you overloaded because you were angry. Your magic is tied to your emotional state."
Vane turned, pointing his sword at Elian's chest.
"That makes you volatile. And volatility gets people killed."
"I saved people," Elian argued, tightening his grip on the wood.
"You got lucky," Vane corrected. He began to circle Elian, moving with the predatory grace of a jungle cat. "If you want to survive the Queen... if you want to survive me... you need to learn to summon the light on command. Not just when you're scared."
"So how do I do that?" Elian asked, mirroring Vane's movement.
"Attack me."
Elian blinked. "What?"
"You want to go home? You want to free the boy, Bram? You want to punch me in the face?" Vane smirked. "Here is your chance. Attack me. Use your magic."
Elian hesitated. He looked at the wooden sword, then at Vane. He didn't want to hurt him. He had just healed him.
"I'm not going to—"
Vane moved.
It was a blur. One second Vane was ten feet away; the next, he was inside Elian's guard. The wooden blade slammed into Elian's ribs.
Elian gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stumbled back, clutching his side. It wasn't a lethal blow, but it stung like hell.
"Hesitation," Vane lectured, stepping back. "Dead."
Anger flared in Elian's chest. "You said attack you! You didn't say you were going to cheap-shot me!"
"The Queen won't wait for you to get ready," Vane said coolly. He struck again, a sweeping blow toward Elian's legs.
Elian jumped, the wood whistling beneath his feet. He scrambled back, raising his sword. "Fine!"
Elian lunged. He swung the sword with all the strength of a street brawler—wild, unrefined, and heavy. Vane parried it effortlessly, batting the strike aside as if Elian were a child.
"Sloppy," Vane taunted. Whack. He tapped Elian on the shoulder.
"Too wide." Whack. A tap to the thigh.
"Telegraphing." Whack. A sharp rap against Elian's knuckles.
Elian growled. He dropped the sword—it was useless against a master swordsman—and threw a punch. A dirty left hook aimed at Vane's jaw.
Vane caught Elian's fist in his open palm. The impact made a meaty thud. Vane didn't even flinch.
"Better," Vane murmured, his face inches from Elian's. "But still not magic."
Vane twisted Elian's arm, spinning him around and shoving him face-first into the black sand. Elian spat out grit, scrambling to his knees.
"Stop holding back!" Vane roared, his voice echoing off the rune-walls. "Summon it! Burn me!"
"I can't!" Elian shouted, scrambling up. "I don't know how!"
Vane advanced. He dropped his wooden sword. He raised his hand, and the shadows in the room leaped to his command. Tendrils of darkness, cold and oily, slithered up his arms.
"Then I will give you a reason," Vane whispered.
He lashed out with the shadows. They weren't solid, but they hit with the force of a physical blow. A whip of darkness struck Elian's chest, knocking him backward. The cold burned through his clothes, seeping into his bones.
"Bram," Vane said, his voice cold. "Do you think he's warm right now? Or is he freezing in the alleyway because you failed?"
"Shut up," Elian hissed. He felt a spark deep in his gut.
Vane struck again. Another lash of shadow. "Does he wonder why you left him? Does he think you took the Commander's coin and abandoned him?"
"I didn't abandon him!" The spark grew hot.
"Prove it!" Vane shouted. He formed a spear of condensed shadow in his hand and hurled it.
It wasn't a lethal aim—it was meant to graze—but to Elian, it looked like death.
The instinct took over.
Elian didn't think about the mechanics of magic. He didn't recite a spell. He just wanted the cold to stop. He wanted the darkness to back off.
He threw his hands up.
BURN.
The explosion was immediate. A shockwave of pure, concentrated sunlight erupted from Elian's core. It wasn't the defensive dome from the marketplace. This was a lance. A beam of blinding white fire that cut through the gloom of the arena.
It hit Vane's shadow-spear and vaporized it instantly.
The beam continued, slamming into Vane.
Vane didn't dodge. He threw up a wall of obsidian darkness, bracing himself. The light collided with the shadow.
HISSSSSS.
The sound of opposing elements warring filled the room. Steam and ozone billowed out. For a moment, they were locked in a stalemate—Elian pouring his rage into the light, Vane holding the darkness with gritted teeth.
"Good!" Vane yelled over the roar of the magic. "Hold it! Don't let it explode! Focus it!"
Elian's vision blurred. The heat was intense. He felt like his veins were filled with molten gold. He pushed harder.
Vane's shield shattered.
The Commander was thrown backward, sliding across the black sand until he hit the far wall with a heavy thud.
The light cut out instantly as Elian gasped, dropping to his hands and knees. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose into the sand.
Silence returned to the room.
"Vane?" Elian croaked.
No answer.
Panic, cold and sharp, replaced the heat. "Vane!"
Elian scrambled up and ran across the arena. Vane was slumped against the rune-wall, his head hanging low.
Elian skidded to a halt, dropping to his knees beside him. He reached out, grabbing Vane's shoulders. "Vane! I didn't mean to—"
Vane looked up.
He was grinning.
There was a smudge of soot on his cheek and his hair was wild, but his eyes were alive. He looked exhilaratingly, terrifyingly happy.
"You... you hit like a falling star," Vane wheezed, a laugh bubbling up in his chest.
Elian stared at him, incredulous. "I could have killed you! You're crazy!"
"I'm durable," Vane corrected. He sat up, wincing slightly as he rubbed his chest. "And you did it. You summoned it on command. It was messy, and you have the finesse of a sledgehammer, but you did it."
Vane looked at Elian. The adrenaline was still high between them. They were both breathing hard, covered in sweat and sand, kneeling inches apart in the dim light.
The dynamic shifted. The violence of the spar faded, leaving behind a raw, potent tension.
Vane reached out, his hand gripping the back of Elian's neck. His skin was cool against Elian's fever-hot flesh.
"You are a sun, Elian," Vane whispered, his thumb stroking the damp hair at the nape of Elian's neck. "You burn everything you touch."
"And you?" Elian asked, his voice barely a whisper. He was too tired to pull away. He leaned into the touch, craving the coolness.
"I am the shadow," Vane said softly. "I am the only thing that can touch the sun without being destroyed."
He pulled Elian closer. Their foreheads touched. Elian closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the scent of him—the sweat, the iron, the sandalwood. It was grounding.
"We have to balance each other," Vane murmured. "If you burn too hot, I will dampen you. If I grow too cold, you will warm me. That is how we survive the Queen."
Elian opened his eyes. Vane was looking at his mouth.
"Is that part of the training?" Elian breathed.
Vane's gaze flicked up to Elian's eyes. The hunger was there again, stark and undeniable.
"No," Vane said hoarsely. "This is... a complication."
He pulled back abruptly, the loss of contact leaving Elian cold. Vane stood up, offering a hand to pull Elian to his feet.
"Clean up," Vane ordered, his voice returning to the clipped tone of the Commander, though his eyes lingered on Elian's face. "We have a banquet to attend tonight. And you are going to serve wine to the very people who want you dead."
Elian took the hand. He felt the callous of Vane's palm against his own.
"I hate banquets," Elian muttered.
"You'll hate this one more," Vane promised. "The Queen is announcing the date of the Eclipse Rite. And Lyra—the Princess—has requested your presence specifically."
"Why?"
Vane's face darkened.
"Because she wants to see if the 'mute servant' flinches when she hurts him."